I’m sorry. I write shitty. But I wanted to give a sample of my Logan in his purest element. That is, after his memory loss and before the X-Men. Anyways. Read at your own risk.
Waking up was the worst of it. There was always a brief moment before the weight set in where he felt normal, and then he’d notice how he’d sunk into the dirt and crushed the branches beneath him. As far as he could tell, this was all over, not just in the parts that came out. But Logan turned over to his side anyways, gripping the jacket he had tightly and the tags at his neck even more strongly. They held the only clues as to who he was, and they were pretty shitty about it, but it was enough for now. There were two, and while one was old enough that he couldn’t help but smell the rust forming, the other was new. On the old one, there was a serial number, a single name, “Logan”, and a scratched insignia he couldn’t make out anymore. The next one, the newer of the two, was still stained with blood on it’s chain, and only said “Weapon X: Wolverine”. As established, they told fuck-all, but there was something comforting about them that made him keep them.
Shrugging off the last of his calming dreams, Logan stood up, dusting the dirt off his back and got dressed quickly. Not like he had a lot, just a pair of jeans and a shirt, but he earned enough or stole enough to keep them clean, and it gave just a little more comfort. Looking at his hands, Logan felt over them. The scars from yesterday had vanished as always, as deep as they were from the thick brush he had cut into to make his den. Not needing an axe or tools, he was content slashing through brambles to find seclusion, but whatever was keeping him from being hurt confused him more than the foot long blades in his forearms.
Speaking of, he could feel them start to itch under his skin again, and after looking around to make sure nobody was tracking him, Logan took a deep breath before locking his wrists straight and letting the claws slide out slowly. Little drips of blood came from his knuckles, dusting the leaves under his feet, and the smell of copper from his fresh wounds was nothing compared to the metallic odor from his claws. They were only a foot long, but being a shorter fella, he didn’t enjoy most of his forearm itching during the day, so it was best to air them out now. As usual, they shone brightly, not a bit dulled by the tearing and ever moving and fixing environment they were kept in, and Logan never needed to sharpen them for an instant. He had been practicing the way he used them, from carving little wooden figures that he’d ditch as soon as they were done, to carving out a wedge in the walls of some of his former caves, and the feeling never ceased to make him feel a rush, like they were a part of him that needed to be used however he could. It definitely did something to his rage, which was becoming a little easier to subdue away from civilization, but still bothered him in his sleeping and waking nightmares. Still, he wasn’t going to do any of that today.
Today was his last day before leaving the logging site he had been working at, which is why he dug out this patch of brambles so he could move on faster after saying goodbyes the dsy before. It was nice here, but the rule was 4 months or things got bloody, and between a brief relationship with his foreman and fixing the town’s water pump, he was close to 4 and a week. Logan just wanted to leave before he caused any more hurt again. He knew when the last one was to the hour, just past 2:00, 6 months ago.
But for now, “730 days, Logan. Happy second birthday.”
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2087
